


every breath was a stone

by Gildedstorm



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Gen, agender jedi knight, dark side trauma, featuring concepts stolen from comics about the rakata, gradual conversion to the light, in which the jedi temple is helpful and troubling in equal measure, prologue to the story prologue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-12-17 00:37:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11840352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gildedstorm/pseuds/Gildedstorm
Summary: The Jedi Order discovers a remnant of the Infinite Empire, and sends them to Tython. Neither they nor their prisoner could predict how momentous this decision would be, but that is years away.Shen doesn't want a new life but they have little choice in the matter, and the Jedi Code is something new, safety and shelter and hope all at once. If they can prove worthy of it....





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> why yes, another chaptered fic when I haven't updated my other one yet, but this one is more self-contained and smaller in scale, so easier to keep up with! updating in order is fake anyways

Awakening is always painful.

The stasis field flickers out and Shen lurches forward. The first moments are a blur of sensations; light in their eyes, the sickening feeling of half-falling, their hands on stone as they catch themselves. They reach outward as they wait for their sight to clear, and the Force sweeps through them like the wind, bringing with it flashes of their vault.

Something is wrong. There are too many people, and their confusion and fear lies thick on their tongue. Power, too, but it is not twisted inward and rotting, not sick, not Rakata at all. They blink away the spots from their eyes, look up from their hands – their name is reflected there, once on each hand, in case their arms are ever cut away – and freeze, still almost kneeling.

Ten people, six in armour, and two with power stirring around them, making the Force ripple. No, not people. Ten intruders.

“What have you done?” they ask, getting to their feet. Several of them are holding weapons, and while they look unfamiliar, the barrels dip to train on them as they move. The meaning of that is clear enough, but Shen is a Force Hound – not some easy prisoner. “Where are the guards? The Rakata?”

Silence follows, for a moment, and when the intruders finally answer, it’s not in any language Shen has heard before. They bare their teeth and raise a hand, ready to defend themselves, but the group hesitates, looking among themselves. One of them taps at something on her collar, and when she speaks, it’s in Rakatan, terribly accented but understandable.

“We mean you no harm,” she says, and Shen bristles, eyeing the weapons pointed in their direction. “Stasis has disoriented you. There are no Rakata here.”

“ _What?_ ” they hiss, unable to believe it. This is _Belsavis_ , a cage crafted out of a planet, and just one of the Infinite Empire’s terrible marvels. How stupid does she think they are? The woman raises her hands to placate them and another steps forward to murmur something in that unfamiliar flow of sounds to her. From him they don’t catch even a hint of fear, just caution, and power that does not blaze or crackle in the Force but simply thrums like a lingering note; ever-present and impossible to ignore.

He is the dangerous one here, they decide, and eye him more carefully.

“It is true,” the woman insists. “It has been a very long time since this vault was opened. We thought....” She trails off, frowning, and the dangerous one steps in smoothly.

“The Rakata have been dead and gone for thousands of years. You have been in stasis as their empire fell.”

The woman whirls on him, green skin darkening as she snaps something too low and fast for them to possibly catch. Not that it matters – his words echo in their ears, such a ridiculous lie that it makes no sense at all to tell.

Which means –

It is the truth. _Must_ be the truth. Shen sinks back down on their knees and traces the grooves in the floor, digs their claws in as they reach, and reach, and _reach –_

Belsavis unfolds around them. It has always been a strange planet to sense, and this has not changed. It is achingly empty, life teeming in small spaces carved out between ice and rocks, and beneath and below lie the vaults and the lives within, even the feel of them slow and still as Shen sifts through them. It is as the intruders said. There are no Rakata, bitter with rage as their power forsakes them and withers in their grasp.

Shen closes their eyes, feels the fear within them and feeds it to the Force as they reach even further. The stasis has weakened them – they can only feel the nearest stars, and the surrounding planets are faint – but it’s still enough. The Infinite Empire would never leave its prison so unguarded, and whatever stations drift in orbit above them, they are nothing like the layers of defences Shen remembers from being first taken here.

It truly is gone.

They think they should be relieved, but their hands tremble and their eyes sting. When they look up again, the man is staring at them, wary and pensive.

“The Force is strong with you,” he says. “You use the dark side well.” Shen isn’t sure why he bothers saying something so obvious, but the others react as if stung, and they scramble back to their feet as the soldiers ready their weapons.

“Wait,” the woman cuts in. “He’s a prisoner, not a –” The word she uses is unfamiliar, perhaps not caught by the translator. Something like _sif_. “This doesn’t need to be a fight. He’s in stasis shock as it is.” That gets a low mutter from one of the soldiers, who clearly don’t feel like being understood by the threat. Knowing they’re being discussed and being unable to understand it grates on them, and Shen flexes their hands restlessly, balancing on the balls of feet. They can’t be sure they can take down all of them – one or two of the soldiers, certainly, if they can get close enough. Weapons will mean little once they have them in reach. “Master Syo?” she prompts.

“Yes,” the powerful one – Syo, apparently – says slowly. “You’re right, Captain, he is not –” And that word again, sharp with tension. “This can be resolved peacefully.”

“I am still here,” Shen growls. “I have ears. And it is not _he_.”

They both look taken aback briefly, and Syo offers them a smile that is more polite than sincere, dips his head as if to soothe them. “I am sorry. Do you... remember your name?”

If they had a name before this one, it was lost when the Rakata took them. “Shen.”

“Shen.” His eyes flick up to their forehead and the tattoo there, just below their horns. “Of course. I am Syo Bakarn.”

“Captain Hekall,” the woman says, and at her quick gesture the soldiers lower their weapons.

It would have been easier if they hadn’t told Shen their names. Maybe then they could have fought their way past them, and then... and then what? Belsavis has changed from their scattered memories, hums with so many other sleeping prisoners. They would have found no shelter, if they had run.

It still is a tempting thought, to run and run until there is nothing left. It’s better than trying to face the emptiness looming just ahead. “What do you want from me?” they ask, shoulders hunching and trying to ignore what feels very much like pity from the captain. It is easier to focus on Syo, whose emotions have barely shifted from watchful calm this entire time.

“To get you out of here without any trouble, first of all,” Hekall says. “I’m guessing you’ve spent more than enough time in this vault already.”

Yet another thing they don’t want to think about. _Time_. “And go where?” Their voice wavers, despite their best efforts. _Stasis shock_ , Hekall had said, and Shen can feel the weight of each limb, the strain in muscles that normally took no effort to move. Perhaps it’s better that they didn’t try to fight. If the soldiers hadn’t brought them down, their own exertions would have.

A traitorously weak part of them thinks that might be a better ending. The Rakata are gone, a bleeding wound that hurts to think past. It shouldn’t, but it _does_.

“To the orbital station, first. And then –”

“Sorry, Captain. Your discovery happens to be a powerful Force-user – it’s my duty to bring Shen to Tython.” Shen glances up at him dully, not entirely surprised that they are still something to be taken and brought. “My order has a temple there,” Syo tells them, and this time they can feel that calm he carries with him being carefully extended in their direction. They could fight it, but mustering the energy for that seems too great a task, and gradually, they feel their fear ebb, the twin pulse of their hearts slow. “We can help you.”

Is there anything left to help? But they feel less raw, and the thought of living in a galaxy where everything that has shaped them is gone no longer hurts quite as much. The smallest of mercies.

Besides, Shen has not quite forgotten the soldiers, or Syo’s quietly held power. They doubt they have any choice in the matter.

So at worst, it is as it’s always been.

“And then what?”

“That remains to be seen. The galaxy has changed much since you were imprisoned.” Syo looks at their tattoo again, but only for a moment, and then meets Shen’s gaze evenly. “If you are willing, I think there is much we could discuss about your future.”

So they agree, because of course they do. Anything is better than remaining on Belsavis, and whatever Tython is – an unfamiliar name, a planet Syo sketches out in short, fond sentences of ruins and lost knowledge and wilderness – it does not have the shadow of the Rakata on it. That has to be better.

They leave orbit only hours later, once Syo has been assured that Shen will not collapse on the way. Once he leaves them alone to plot a course, they slide to the ship’s floor, press their hands to the metal for an anchor and reach out again into the dizzying expanse of space.

Stars have gone out while they slept. Orbits have shifted. Empires have died. If they are to live, then they will learn this galaxy again, planet by planet, star by star.


	2. Chapter 2

Tython, it turns out, is a beacon in the Force, just like the planets Shen had once searched for. Unlike those planets, it seems almost impossibly untouched by conquest. During those first few days, it’s almost all they can think of – how they might have stumbled upon this planet if they hadn’t been taken to Belsavis.

They dream of the ruin it would be if the Rakata had found it, and it’s only waking to unfamiliar walls that keeps them from straining, time and time again, to find some proof that the empire still lives.

The dread fades with time, and they have enough to occupy their mind with besides nightmares and fears. Syo had not bothered to go into details of what _Jedi_ meant, and then promptly led Shen into their stronghold. (They call it a temple instead, but it brims with power in the Force and those trained to use it, so it amounts to much the same thing.) They try not to begrudge him that, and perhaps it had been for the best – if they had known, they likely would have tried to run.

Shen has always known the Force. They cannot remember if once they had used it differently, but once they became a Force Hound, there was no choice of _how_. The Rakata valued only the dark side, and so that was what they learned to draw upon. To fight, of course, to scramble to stay alive when pitted in battles for amusement, but to sense as well, to feel for the ebbs and flows in the Force as it swept around star systems and find each bright spot that meant a planet with life that could be harvested, or a bond to the Force that could be used.

It was not a pleasant task, but it kept them alive. They had been valued for the distance they could cover and the clarity of their sight. That their skill led to more fodder for the Infinite Empire’s limitless appetite meant little. Guilt was a luxury they had never been able to afford.

The Jedi do not see things quite the same way.

After a discussion between Syo and four other Jedi – all so bright in the Force that Shen almost feels drowned out by their combined presence – entirely in Basic and thus over their head, they are welcomed to the Jedi Temple, or as welcomed as any user of the dark side is. They are assigned a room that they cannot leave without an escort, a guard that shadows them, and are required to come when called for.

They are called for often, in those first weeks. The Jedi question them about everything; what they remember, what they did, how they trained and why, cutting apart every facet of their life. It’s almost a relief when they turn to their mind and power instead.

“You are full of fear,” Nyrin says – the most recent in the line of Jedi Masters they have been meeting with. Her tone is soft, almost sad, but her presence in the Force burns clear, absent of anything close to sorrow. Shen isn’t sure if they will ever become accustomed to reaching out and feeling... not nothing, but shining calm, laser-bright composure. On some days, it’s frightening, as if the entire temple has been washed clean of anything that’s _real_ , and on others they ache to be even a little closer to that untouchable serenity. Jedi may still know pain, be hurt and die, but their pain seems more distant, their anguish muted.

Her power is curled around their own, and if they focus they can feel her probing gently through layers of memories and scars. They would rather not focus. This is already too much like contact, though she’s well out of arm’s reach and they’ve clenched their hands to hide their trembling. There are advantages to this sort of questioning – their grasp on Basic is improving by the day, catching fragments of memories and deliberately offered knowledge, and it assures the Jedi that they are no threat.

They usually try to be gentle as they move through Shen’s mind, but it is still impossibly intimate, a closeness that makes their throat go dry. They are afraid, and they do not want to be, but they cannot stop it.

The probe pauses, and this time they realize Nyrin is waiting for their response. “...Yes?”

“Fear,” she says, now that she knows she has their attention. “We have had captured Sith in the temple before.” It’s faint, but Shen catches a hint of cold menace, a glimpse of burning eyes. “They overflow with pride, with anger, with hatred. Rarely just fear.” She blinks at them with reptilian slowness, and in the Force they feel her curiosity, contained and slow-moving. “Why?”

“I served,” they point out slowly, grappling for the right words. “I obeyed. There was nothing to be proud of. Anger... came and went. But even when it went, fear remained.” They shrug and wince as their body protests, legs prickling to life beneath them. “So I used it.”

“Not like Sith at all,” Nyrin murmurs, and lets the conversation end on that cryptic note.


	3. Chapter 3

It is fortunate that they are used to following or being followed. Every step they take in the temple is with a Jedi Knight nearby, even when all they want to do is stretch their legs or venture outside. Even the right to go out is hard-won, and they had to promise to stay far from any of the Jedi in training – the padawans, they call them, yet another term Shen tries to press into memory.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter how much they try to learn. They are a prisoner here, at best a curiosity for the scholars to learn from. Their knowledge and memory of the Infinite Empire has been tapped and exhausted, and the Jedi find them less fascinating now, if still someone to be wary of, as if they could kill their guards and make it ten steps out of the temple.

As if they even wanted to.

It’s not that they enjoy being a prisoner – though they are kinder keepers than the Rakata ever were – but there is something about the Jedi they cannot help but envy. They seem so calm, so sure of themselves that they seem almost as untouchable as light, or air. Shen has always drawn strength from emotion, but now they feel raw with fear and loss and the bone-deep, aching confusion of being in a galaxy no longer meant for them. It is too much. It _hurts_.

What is it like, to feel so little, to be so certain?

At first it was best to not ask questions, to not speak out of turn at all. Obedience has always conferred some amount of safety, and the more they comply, the less the Jedi see them as a threat, as something close enough to Sith to be wary of.

(Not that Shen knows much about the Sith either, only that they are passionate, powerful, dark enough to fear, as much as the Jedi can fear anything.)

Now their guards are less stern, inclined to let them wander further away or talk – though Shen suspects guarding them has simply lost any kind of novelty by now. So when they begin to explore the temple more thoroughly, investigating winding passages or clambering up the curving walls, the Jedi are content to mostly leave them to it, as long as they’re still in sight.

Shen learns they like climbing up as high as they can, ending up on some slanted roof or a balcony where they can bask in the sun, or look at the horizon and the unfamiliar mountains rising above it.

It is the closest that they have found yet to _peace._ It is small, but it is theirs.

Usually, no one bothers to follow them up, but if they look down they can see whoever is assigned to them for the day lingering nearby, sipping tea or talking to other Jedi. It is still morning when Shen makes it up to one of their preferred spots, where the curve of the temple’s roof is shallow enough to sit comfortably. The roof itself is already pleasantly warm, and they almost consider dozing a little when they hear the scuffling sound of someone else climbing up after them.

Fear grapples with readiness and they scramble to their feet, poised to run – they know the fall from this height won’t kill them, if they have to jump – until their current guard, a boldly striped Cathar, shows himself, peering at them with mild curiosity.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says with a sharp-toothed smile, settling down just out of reach. After a moment, Shen warily sinks back down as well. “I haven’t been up here in ages – I used to climb all over the temple as a padawan. The masters were quick to send me anywhere but here to get me out of their hair. Of course, you’re much quieter about it.” Shen isn’t quite sure how to handle this sudden starting of a conversation, so they go for the safest option and nod stiffly. “So why come up here? It’s not like you’ve got lessons to avoid.”

So he did come up here solely to speak to them. Shen shakes off their surprise as best as they can, ignoring the slow burn of resentment they can do nothing with. They are a prisoner, after all. That their time hasn’t been intruded on recently only means no one has cared enough to do so, and the Cathar is clearly the exception.

As always, fear curls just beneath the anger, bone-deep. Being sought out had never led to anything pleasant in their old life, and they can’t quite believe that so much has changed since then.

Still, it is better to respond than find out if there is a price exacted for staying silent.

“It’s quiet,” they say as explanation. “And I like to look at the sky.” They say it with their gaze fixed on the horizon. Easier, as always, than looking at who they’re talking to. That instinct was trained out of them years ago.

“It’s quite a view, isn’t it?” It’s not a question that needs answering, and Shen lets the conversation lapse into silence, however brief. “It’s kind of hard to believe that here you are – some impossible Force-user from an ancient empire we barely know anything about, and... all you do is sit and listen and look at the sky.” It is harder to keep looking away now, but Shen senses nothing angry or disappointed from him, just that pleasant but languid curiosity. “Haven’t you wanted to... not do everything we tell you? Run away, escape somewhere?”

“Where would I go? This galaxy is closed to me,” they say, a little quicker than they intended. They’ve had this conversation before in their head, around and around until, as always, doing nothing is what they settle on. “Everything I know is gone. There would be no point.”

“Huh.” And then: “So what do you want?” It’s asked so bluntly that it hits them like a punch beneath their ribs, and they let out their breath, trying to shrug off their rising anger, the anguish beneath it. They cannot possibly have enough words to explain how small their wishes are – to be able to live and breathe and study the stars and have nothing asked of them – and how large – for the galaxy to return them to the time and place they knew and understood, painful as it was, terrible as it was.

“I don’t know.” They curl their hands together, rubbing at their tattoos. Their guard notices, of course. For all that he speaks plainly, Shen is sure he’s listening and watching them very carefully, and likely feeling them out in the Force as well.

“You can get those taken off, you know. They’re barbaric – no one would deny you getting rid of them.” It’s something they’ve thought of, but can’t quite imagine – the thought of their skin scrubbed clean of every mark of identity is terrifying, a greater loss than anything else. When that doesn’t get a response, he forges onward. “Or changing your name, too – we have Jedi that started out as slaves, you know. A lot of them ended up turning away from what they used to be called, and even they weren’t just turned into a _letter_.” That’s the first genuine flash of emotion they pick up from him, loaded with pity and scorn, and Shen hunches their shoulders as if that alone can fend it off.

In truth, they hadn’t given much thought to their name. There was a time before the tattoos, of course, but it’s not one they remember much of. After it, they were always Shen.

The idea of changing it does not frighten them as much, somehow, perhaps because in the end it is far less permanent. They only need to look at their hands or into a mirror to see who they used to be.

“Maybe,” Shen says at last, and even such a tentative concession gets an approving nod, as if any sign of progress is what he is looking for. Perhaps it is. With a chill that settles between their shoulderblades, they consider that the Jedi might want something of them, from them, that they don’t wish to reveal just yet.

Or maybe they want them to grow, to adapt to this time, but that option is too optimistic to put much faith in.

“It might be good for you,” their guard says, and if he’s noted their frown, he doesn’t comment on it. “You could be a lot more than this if you try, I bet.”

Shen isn’t sure they want to be more at all. They might want to be less – less fear, less doubt, less worry over what has happened and what still might. There’s no point in trying to explain that now, or maybe ever.

“Thank you,” they say instead, and try not to wonder what it would mean to _try_.


	4. Chapter 4

Something is wrong. It takes Shen a few moments to figure out  _what_  as they walk down the hall, used to the distant sound of footsteps that means their guard is still trailing them. They stop and turn to see her – a Jedi from some strange armoured species called the Krevaaki – halted, head tilted as if listening to something Shen can’t hear. She then turns and quite calmly begins to walk away, deliberate and unhurried.

Surely they should... call out, or simply follow after her, but they’re so baffled that for a moment they only stare at her retreating back.

“Don’t worry,” someone says, and Shen turns, spotting the speaker tucked against a pillar, positioned so anyone walking past wouldn’t see her. “It’ll wear off soon, but if she’d stayed, she would have chased me off.”

This does not help with their bafflement, though suspicion prickles down their spine until the stranger leans forward, and beneath the still, shining calm that means _Jedi_ they can sense curiosity rolling towards them like a wave. Her serenity is somehow more shallow, too, easier to pick apart and not the nearly unyielding shield they are used to.

“You are in training,” they guess, searching for the right word. “...A pada – padawan?”

She looks human, with skin darker than their own, but for reasons they cannot fathom, her eyes are covered and bound with cloth. It does nothing to hide her smile, or the answering – and surprising – flare of delight. It’s strange to be around someone they can actually _sense_ beneath the veneer of calm.

“Yes, that’s right. I am Chotal and you are the captive. I know, because there’s no one in the temple who feels like you. Even the air around you is cold.” She might not have meant anything by it, but Shen shifts their weight, uncomfortable with the thought that their presence alone could still make a Jedi uneasy. “We’re not allowed to speak to you, you know.”

“...I know. Is that why you sent –” They search for a moment for the Jedi’s name, suddenly stung by the thought of admitting that she is their guard – “Kh’ita away?”

“Yes.” Chotal shrugs, apparently not seeing anything impressive in this feat.

“ _How?”_

“It’s just distracting someone, making them feel like there’s something else to do. Eventually she’ll remember and come back for you.” They consider this, brow furrowed. “I do it all the time, but I’m not sure I could teach you how. You’re too... dark, and you keep changing and twisting around. If you reached out to my mind, I’m sure I would notice.”

“I am... trying,” Shen says heavily. “To be less dark.”

“Oh.” This gets a flicker of surprise and she tilts her head, as if scrutinizing them despite her covered eyes. “Why?”

There is something about her blunt, open curiosity that lets them lower their guard, just a little. It helps that she can’t possibly see their bemused expression. “Why are you trying to be a Jedi?”

“Because they took me in when I was three and I kept lifting the table,” she says, so matter of fact that they, despite everything, snort quietly. “And because it feels like it’s the right thing. I feel like I’m where I should be, when I use the Force. I want to know everything I can about it, so I can do everything the masters say I’ll be capable of.”

She’s clearly waiting for their own answer, and Shen glances at the hall – still empty, and Kh’ita’s presence nowhere close by. “Because the dark side was not enough to help me, and now it... seems it will only hurt. And because I have never known anything like the Jedi,” they say at last. “They seem so... wise. So powerful, so... untouched by pain, or fear, or... anything else. I want to be like that or – or closer to it.”

There is a long moment as Chotal considers that and Shen wishes they had spoken less freely. They had never been _talkative_ , and they can count the number of times they have been safe enough to speak as they wished on one hand. They can’t be sure if this is one of them.

“I don’t know where you’re from, or what you’ve done until now, but... that sounds wise enough, to me. I’m glad it was you who ended up coming this way.”

They cannot remember ever being called _wise_ , and they’re not sure of what – if anything – to say to that. Thankfully, Chotal gives them something else to focus on. “You were not waiting for me?”

“Oh, no – I’m hiding,” she admits easily, as tranquil about it as any of their guards. “I was going to try to nudge away anyone who came by. I found this recording of Ductavis’ thoughts on the Pius Dea Crusades, and it’s too long to listen to in one go if I went to my lessons, so... I’m not going to my lessons.”

Such nonchalant defiance is like a blow to the face, and they swallow hard, feeling any common ground between them fall away. So the Jedi are kind enough – something inside Shen whispers _soft_ instead – that their students would not be punished harshly for ignoring their rules. They can think of twenty ways the Rakata would have retaliated, and all would have left her screaming.

What have they become, that they resent her being treated with _mercy_?

For once, they’re relieved to sense their guard approaching, and straighten up. “Kh’ita is returning. I should... go to her before she suspects anything. But thank you – for what you said.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, lightly as if it meant so little. “I know you’re a prisoner but... I think we’ll be able to meet again.”

Perhaps it’s the way she meets their gaze despite her covered eyes, or the power Shen can sense brimming from her, but there is a certainty to the statement that chills them. They do not, cannot, doubt it.


	5. Chapter 5

“You may approach the Council,” the Grandmaster says, standing in front of the long, elegant table that the rest of the Jedi Council is seated at. Shen recognizes a few of them – Master Syo, of course, and Master Gnost-Dural who had questioned them several times – but the rest are strangers, and together they seem an intimidatingly unified front, calm and distant.

Shen knows there’s no way to hide their nerves, so they don’t bother trying.

“Thank you, Master Satele.”

“There was a matter you wished to bring to us,” she continues, and it is very much not a question. Her voice is warm, even soothing, but she shines even more brightly than the rest of the Council, unyielding and radiant.

Shen swallows, the effort futile. Their throat is dry, their Basic a hesitant rasp. Best to start with the smaller declaration, even if it is still nowhere close to easy. “Yes. I – I have decided on a name. A... proper name.”

Behind her, one of the other Jedi scoffs and shifts in his seat, but they try to keep their attention on Satele. In the Infinite Empire, it had been vital to sense who had the most power and influence in the room, often at a second’s notice. The Jedi are different, but the Council is still a hub of power, and Shen knows Satele is the one they have to convince. If they can earn some good will or sympathy before then, all the better.

She nods, willing to hear them out, and so encouraged, they forge ahead. “Shenrihn. I will be Shenrihn.” Blessedly, they don’t stumble over it, but then, they’ve been choosing how it should sound and testing it out for weeks now.

Is it weakness to not leave their former identity behind? They could have chosen something entirely different, asked for their tattoos to be erased, but... they can’t help feeling that it would leave them stranded.

“It will be added to the records,” Gnost-Dural says, voice even more gravelly than their own. “But...” A tilt of that masked and ridged head. “You are not quite finished.”

Of course. Their fears and worries are never just theirs, not in the temple.

“Is he going to tell us his birthday next?” the impatient Jedi says, and Shen – no, Shenrihn tries not to flinch, or let the abrupt surge of shame become something sharper and more dangerous.

“They,” Satele murmurs, and gratitude washes over them, as swift as the shame. “I believe it’s more important than that. Go on, Shenrihn.”

“I want to become a Jedi,” they say before they can think better of it, or the words freeze in their throat. For the first time, the solid front of the Council cracks. Syo leans forward; a Togruta woman back, lips pursed. If they’ve truly surprised them, it isn’t for long. A flurry of discussion follows, almost too much for Shenrihn to follow.

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” one of the other Masters says, frowning.

“A risky request,” a Nautolan agrees. “But there is merit. The Force is strong with them.”

“Strong in the dark side, not the light. That cannot be overlooked.”

“We have others, proper padawans that are stronger. Yuon’s, for one.”

“You aren’t going to encourage this, are you, Satele?” asks the same impatient one as before, the scar on his face making him look even sterner as it pulls taut. The arguing – for that is what it is, even if it’s more measured by far than any Shenrihn has witnessed before – abates for a moment.

“They have been a guest of our Order for five months now,” she says, not quite an answer yet. Shenrihn shifts on their feet, unable to keep entirely still. Being talked over and around is always difficult, even more so when it’s their fate being discussed so lightly. “Every report brought to the Council has described them as quiet, obedient, willing to cooperate. Not a threat, by any means.”

“That is hardly the deciding factor for choosing padawans,” the Togruta points out. “Our situation may be dire, but does it justify taking on someone who could pose such a risk? They have lived their entire life as a slave to the Infinite Empire.”

“We all leave behind our pasts when we become Jedi, and they would hardly be the first former slave in our ranks.”

“Or the first to turn away from the dark completely.” That is from another Kel Dor, one Shenrihn hasn’t seen before. “If they are truly willing, we should not deny them the chance.”

“Especially,” Syo says, “if they can be of use to the Order.”

That silences them all for a moment, and Shenrihn plunges into the quiet. “I _want_ to be of use. All my life has been enduring bad things, and causing worse ones. I did not think that would ever change. I would just live, and feel pain, and bring pain, and then... die. Now, there is – there’s something else.” They swallow hard, wishing that they didn’t sound so young and hesitant. “A chance of it, anyways. I want that.”

“It will not be easy,” Satele says, and then lifts a hand as the other Jedi stir. “ _If_ it is allowed. You may have been trained to use the Force, and to fight, but becoming a padawan is more than raw ability.”

“There is much to learn of our Order, of the Jedi Code, our history,” the Togruta says. “One might say too much, for one already so old.”

“I will try –” they begin, and Satele shakes her head.

“Enough. Given the Council is so... opinionated in this matter, we will continue to discuss it in private.” She says it over their head, directed at the others, and while there is so little emotion to read in the room, they think the Council’s acceptance might be somewhat grudging.

Shenrihn knows they have no right to question them, but the idea of all these Jedi sternly and distantly talking over their life, their future, without even having them there to speak for themselves rankles. It’s not a new situation by any means, but always unwelcome. “Yes, Master Satele,” they say, stifling their misgivings as best as they can.

If this works, perhaps their life will finally be their own. That’s all that matters, truly.

( _If_ , they cannot help thinking, because there are hundreds, thousands of reasons to find them unsuitable, and all rooted in a past crumbled away to dust.)

“You will be told when we’ve come to a decision,” she says, a little more kindly. However gentle, it’s a clear dismissal. They bow their head and swallow down anything else they could have said, the emotions that threaten to boil up in their too-tight throat.

They can’t be sure, but one of them might be _hope_.


End file.
